A Personal Matter
by ruth baulding
Summary: Angst-ridden epilogue to CW Episode 5.1 "Revival."


**A Personal Matter**

* * *

In his dreams, a yellow-eyed Sith apprentice lays siege to the Temple and slaughters its innocent children. There is no blood, because lightsabers cauterize where they touch. Fire is everywhere, fire licking the very columns of the soaring roof, crumbling mortal flesh and immemorial stone to skittering ash. He chokes on it, and that is generally where he starts awake, drenched in a moist coating of dread, pulse outracing even the Force's soothing currents.

He has fought that same yellow-eyed demon again and again, past and present. And he knows that it lurks, predatorial, insane, just over the horizon of the ever-mutable future.

Perhaps that is why he fights so hard _now, _and here. Because that confrontation still awaits. And he must be ready. He will not be slow again, too slow to save Qui-Gon Jinn, too slow to save Adi Gallia, too slow to save _Anakin, _ Force forbid. But that is always a possibility. He will not be tardy when fate summons him to the day of reckoning. On that day he will do what he must even if he burns in fire afterward, with the bodies of the innocent slain, the bodies that now lay piled hundreds and thousands deep in every corner of the galaxy, ready for the last torch to set flame to the Republic's pyre.

Anakin can see it in his eyes, and he can see his own fire reflected in those swift-burning blue stars. And in the twin fires they each wield, two against two, paired lightning tongues spinning and driving in the dimness of the wide chamber, two pairs of blades screaming incomparable wrath, passionless grief to the walls and the gently curved roof. Spectators stay well back, in the balcony, aware that this is no normal sparring match between the famous friends.

For one of them, it is a personal matter.

* * *

"You okay, master?"

"No."

"Okay." Anakin claps him on the shoulder. "I get it."

That is the sum total of their conversation afterward. The cold shock of water in the shower rooms does not quench the embers of that smouldering fire, though perhaps the Force and time will stamp it into containment. Besides, dual-saber dueling is a touchy discipline, one that depends upon banked fires and the controlled release of incalculable pressures. Any saber form can be adapted for two blades; Soresu in this modality is a thing of dangerous splendor.

Anakin squints balefully at him while they are changing, surveying the new bruises darkening here and there, grim souvenirs of an ill-matched battle against two Dark side lunatics. The younger man's eyebrows rise knowingly, though he says nothing. A scowl answers the unspoken question about the healers' ward, and is met with an indifferent shrug. Anakin is far too wise to pursue this argument. They know each other too well.

He almost lets the young Knight leave - tousled hair still damp, tunics a tad rumpled beneath the ridiculous synth-leather tabards, but still looking every inch the warrior and General that he is – before he speaks. In time of war, brothers should never part without exchanging some form of mutual blessing. Any conversation, no matter how mundane, might in fact be a final farewell.

"Anakin."

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

Anakin's jaunty flash of teeth, the pert slant of his head, are reminiscent of a nine year old boy who has just won his first breathtaking podrace victory. The scar adorning his right eye does nothing to mute his youthful verve, his outrageously bright _nimbus_ within the Force. The boy – man – bears his scars well. But he has others, deep within, which few others know about. That is why he understands, and why he fought so hard, too. He wants to help.

They both nod, and Anakin takes his leave, striding away down the passage to collect his own Padawan, or to summon a war council, or – stars and galaxies – to meditate. A fine idea: he too should meditate, now before the Council session, because even Master Yoda has suggested – openly, without regard to his feelings, as is proper – that his judgment may be clouded.

For him, it has become a personal matter.

* * *

The Council must appoint a new member – again.

"It might have been two." Mace's words are of scant comfort.

Heaviness settles among those present in the circle, weighting the golden morning light with liquid melancholy. Adi Gallia will be sorely missed, although attachment is forbidden. Her bravery, her prudent counsel, her coolly rational mind are noticed more acutely in her absence. Even old Yoda, who counts more friends among the dead than the living, seems smaller, wearier this morning.

It is Kit who breaks the silence, his lilting and resonant voice an echo of Adi's rich tones. "Master Gallia once expressed to me a recommendation that her cousin, Stass Allie, be appointed her successor should she be incapacitated or slain."

Blood relation means nothing in the Force, but the Order's two Tholothian masters are both scions of a very influential diplomatic family here in the Core. The Council cannot afford to lose those important liaisons. For the sake of the greater good, some allowance for sheer machiavellian pragmatism must be made. And it was Adi's wish.

"What do you think, Master Kenobi?" Mace inquires softly.

"Very well; let us ask her, then."

His approval was all the others waited upon.

"Accept she will," Yoda grunts confidently. "Do her duty, Master Allie will."

And so it is resolved upon. The empty seat in the Council's circle wil not remain so for long; it is only the ever expanding chasm within the Living Force, the invisible common grave of so many thousand Jedi, that will remain gaping open, a bleeding and empty place in the universal light.

Adi was called home, albeit in brutal manner. Someday every one of them here present at the spire's pinnacle will answer the same summons. The Force takes no account of rank or achievement, and spares none. In this sense, death itself – according to the traditional teachings – is not a personal matter.

* * *

Tera Sinube is delighted to help. Retirement does not suit the ancient Jedi master; though his mind wanders, it is still well-honed. His beak-like mouth curves in pleasure he listens to the proposal.

"Why of course I can do that, young one," he snorts, settling his creaking joints at the nearest available data terminal in the Archives. Across the broad aisle, Jocasta Nu smiles benignly upon the pair of them, thinking that she sees only an agreeable discussion between colleagues, something to keep Master Sinube harmlessly occupied. If she had an inkling of the conspiracy here hatched, she might be less sympathetic. When she has shuffled on her way, down the adjacent canyon of glowing stacks, the accomplices lean over the terminal together.

"Nothing to it. These underworld filth-mongers think they can get away with murder, now that this accursed war occupies so much Jedi attention. But I've still got contacts everywhere down there in the Underlevels. And my contacts have contacts – not much goes on in the underground crime syndicate without one of them hearing it. If your Zabrak friends show their ugly faces anywhere in the syndicate networks, I'll be able to tell you."

"Thank you, master."

The Supreme Chancellor, and Master Yoda, have both suggested that he lay this matter aside, that his talents and attention would be better spent upon the war effort at large rather than this quest to apprehend a pair of fanatic criminals. And he must admit to the wisdom in what they say; but their cautions against further involvement do not apply to Tera Sinube, do they?

In time past, he might have turned to Dex for help of this sort, but to approach the affable Besalisk now – even in a clandestine fashion – might be to sign his friend's death warrant. He has become a wanted man, the object of a hateful obsession, and he does not trust his adversaries to constrain their malice only to his own person. Indeed, they have proved themselves wiling to extend their hate to any and all associates: the stark evidence scrawled savagely across Adi's dead body. None is exempt from the absolute dictates of revenge.

"It's my pleasure," the Cosian Jedi assures him, humming a merry tune beneath his breath. "Never underestimate the power of old age and treachery, eh?"

"I would not so dare, master. Besides, you've made it possible for me to obey my elders and superiors."

Old Sinube chuckles heartily. "Glad to be of assistance, Master Kenobi."

The elderly master will be an invaluable ally. He enjoys the privileges afforded to senectitude, including a certain freedom from direct Council oversight, He is eager to take part in the investigation, one which will call upon his many decades' experience as a crime-world expert. He looks upon the challenge as a diversion, an amusing game of deadly intent, something to enliven his golden years.

After all, for him it is not a personal matter.

* * *

In his dreams, in his daydreams, in the Force-saturated visions that accompany or come subsequent upon deep meditation, he does far more than sever Oppress' arm, far more than break his kneecap. Sickly green smoke twists, funerary, into the blackened dome of his inner heaven as he _carves_ both wicked brothers to pieces.

He should have aimed for Maul's neck the first time. He won't make that mistake again.

And yet, these are disturbing visions. They bring dark satisfaction, the heady content of a sated lust. When they fade, he is left trembling. As he is now.

He runs a hand through his hair. It is dirty, and needs to be washed. It is growing long again; sweat stings in his eyes when he fights, and this could be distracting. He wipes sweaty palms on his trousers' knees and does not care. War has dulled his fastidious nature somewhat. He will end up as a grimy old hermit yet, as grotty and frayed as Master Yoda himself.

If he lives that long.

Here, in the welcome and cool dimness of the north spire map room, it is easy to believe that war will eventually end, that peace will be restored, that there will be time for anything besides endless excoriating duty. The ten thousand worlds rotate, placidly, in their established dance, rejoicing in the Force, unburdened by the scars and bleeding open wounds of personal affairs. Theirs is an enviable fate.

He has not meditated here since Qui-Gon's death, all those years ago. It was a favorite haunt for the pair of them, a place hallowed by memory and fond association. He has brought his new grief here, hoping that the spirit of his former master might somehow linger, might somehow offer sage counsel.

_Do not let your enemy's obsession become your own,_ the tall man would have said.

He smiles ruefully. He is the subject of more than one enemy's obsession; why is that? For Grievous, for Ventress, for Maul, it is not merely his Jedi status that offends and entices. There is something more, in each case. Something personal. He supposes Dooku must be numbered amongst their ranks, too, since Geonosis. He is beginning to wonder whether the mysterious Sith lord himself has it in for him in some special, individual capacity.

In which case, the Chancellor's desire to ignore the problem seems ill-advised. But he, like every other Jedi, _comes to serve_, he has sworn service to the Republic, to democracy, to the needs of the people, of the innocent and the oppressed.

He cannot be distracted, much less obsessed, by a mere personal matter.

* * *

"Walk with me, hmmm?"

He accepts the invitation at face value, though both Yoda and he know this is a command veiled as a courtesy. They traverse the Temple halls slowly, the ancient one hovering along in his chair, ears drooping. Here and there a stray shaft of light catches his wisping crown and sets it into a silver blaze.

"Agree with my advice, and that of the Chancellor, you do not."

"That is my prerogative, master."

Yoda snorts, as they round a corner and descend the stairwell at a measured pace. "Grown into yourself, you have," he grumbles, but not without an undercurrent of affection.

"Well, I should think so." War has made them all older, wiser, more heartsore.

"Nonetheless, heed our counsel you will."

"Of course." Neither of them has any doubt of that. He has other _personal_ quests, and Yoda knows of them. He would like to see Ventress redeemed. He should like to take that monster Greivous down _personally, _ hand to hand. And there are others which have been delayed into eternity, personal matters he will never pursue, because they have been forever renounced. Neither sort – the present or the past – interferes with his duty. Ever.

Even if Yoda thinks his judgment is clouded.

The ancient master sighs. "To be wholly objective – impossible is this for any individual," the hoary master reminds him. "Guard your heart, you must."

It is too late for that, he fears. They pause as a motley band of younglings and a harried crechemaster hurries across their path. A few cast awe-struck gazes upward at the pair of them.

His smile fades when the younglings are gone. The Temple corridors echo with the footsteps of all those who have gone before him into the Force. Padawans, Knights, Masters, these all laid down their lives in this same protracted struggle, this same agonizing battle with the Sith.

From a certain point of view, they are each and every one of them fighting a yellow-eyed demon and all his brothers. It is not such a very personal matter at all.

* * *

Hondo Ohnaka had offered him a job.

"You're a laser sword wielding maniac, Kenobi," the Weequay pirate captain confided in him, after a great many drinks. "But you are my kind of scum."

He declined an eighth helping, just as he had declined the first through seventh such offers. "Oh?"

"Yes… fearless and inventive. My mother always used to say: son, keep your friends close. But keep your enemies closer. Look what nice allies we make. I could make you a rich man."

"Jedi do not crave…riches," he snorted, averting his gaze as the hired dancing girl tossed the last vestiges of her scanty attire in his general direction.

Ohnaka waved a generous hand, boots propped on the table. His monkey-lizard shrieked and went scampering after the undulating figure of the dancer, upsetting mugs and dishes as it scurried over the intervening tables. "Well, well, well. How 'bout some _revenge_ then, eh? I bet you'd like to take those horny-head crazies down a few notches, eh?"

His hand curled about his saber hilt, his knuckles brushing the smooth curve of another weapon – Adi's – hanging just beside it. "No," he grunted.

"No?" the pirate smirked knowingly. "Oh, sure, sure. I forgot how _honorable_ you are. No matter how bad it gets, you never ever let it get personal!" He lurched forward drunkenly, sloshing some of his drink down his stolen naval uniform coat. "To honor."

He watched the Weequay empty his cup, choking a little on the dregs.

"Yes. To honor."

He ended up declining the offer of employment several more times.

But Hondo hadn't been offended; the pirate seemed to understand that it was nothing personal.

* * *

He does not want to take the message, but he does.

The holoprojector stutters and procrastinates, just as his heart does. They conspire together to delay the transmission a full and troublesome minute before the wavering blue image rights itself above the plate.

Jedi General Siri Tachi is posted in a far-flung sector of Force-forsaken space, a hundred thousand troops deployed to the same region to suppress another Separatist uprising. There will be considerably fewer who return to Coruscant again - this much is certain. And it is equally certain that some number of their Generals will also perish in the fight. Siri might be among them, or she might die later, in another battle.

The future is difficult to see. Siri Tachi's weariness is not.

He runs a hand over his own jaw, smoothing down the beard which is now fretted with premature grey.

They say nothing to one another for a long time. Mercifully, this communications room is empty. Others keep out of his way, out of respect. He will never grow used to it.

"You were with her," Siri says, at last. It must be the static interference that makes her voice break so raggedly. Siri is forged of thrice-wrought durasteel, and is well acquainted with loss.

"Yes." He stands condemned, and he will not plead for leniency. Not from this woman. "We fought side by side against the Sith." Until they were separated, that is; and Adi Gallia paid the price, impaled savagely upon a demon's barbed crown, and then a red blade.

"I'm glad she was with you," Siri says. In the hologram, her entire being is azure, sky-blue and transparent, a saber crystal thrumming with hard-edged light. "It would be a good way to die."

And what can he say to that? People around him die; this is simply what they do. The death toll has mounted over the years, multiplying from ones and twos to dozens and then hundreds, thousands. He fights hard to defend the innocent, but they perish and fall, fluttering blossoms driven on the hot winds of strife. The balance of the universe is changing, tipping into infernal night. Eventually Siri, too, will slide over that black horizon into oblivion. Will he have to stand by and witness that, as well?

"Obi-Wan." She pulls him back into the present moment.

"Forgive me."

"When is the funeral?"

"Tonight." Siri will not be there to light her former master's pyre. One of Adi's fellow Councilors will do this instead. He will volunteer.

They study each other for another minute. "This has become personal for you, hasn't it?"

He will not lie to her.

"Duty," she says. "Remember."

"May the Force be with you, Siri." His bow conceals any trace of pain. The loss is shared; and the grief. But it would be foolish to openly acknowledge this mutuality. Siri Tachi is too wise a friend to press further. And a clone trooper has appeared discreetly behind her, silently requesting her attention. She bows too, the burden of the Order's daunting task bending her back and shoulders down, and the transmission fizzles into a faint echo of blue luminance.

* * *

His hand is steady as he lights the funeral pyre. The old custom has not been observed of late; the hall of remembrance has been full, week after week, with those gathered to acknowledge the passing of one of their own, and the more modern beacon lights sent up from the closed caskets to the high heavens. But Adi loved the traditional ceremony, one thing she and Qui-Gon shared in common, and so her memorial symbolically sets the luminous spirit free through means of purifying fire, burning away the gross matter that is not truly the self. The scents of rich oil and aromatic wood, and others less pleasant, mingle and rise into Coruscant's skies here atop the Temple roof. Warm breezes scatter the coiling smoke and tug at cloak hems.

Anakin stands by his elbow. It is good to have him there. They stood thus at Qui-Gon's funeral, saying farewell to the first victim of Maul's blade. Here lies another Jedi struck down by a maddened Sith warrior, another set of haunting yellow eyes. Have they made no progress in thirteen years? Or only further progress into everlasting darkness?

It is not one Sith's vengeance, nor one man's obsession which binds them all together in this bitter nexus of fate. It is the nameless power behind those yellow eyes, another pair more sinister, better hidden. And it is the concern of every Jedi living or dead, of all those yet to come if the Force so wills it. This is _the war –_ a battle so catastrophic in its implications that the civil conflict it wears like tattered masquerade finery is a mere border squabble by comparison. This is the turning point in history, and they are all bound to its outcome, the very Light holding bated breath upon its resolution.

He glances once at Anakin. The Chosen One. He still believes in the prophecy. He still hopes in the promised redemption. And he cannot possibly fathom the horror he should face, if he is wrong.

Because that too, is a very personal matter.


End file.
